VIII

She danced along with vague, regardless eyes,

      Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:

      The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs

      Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort

      Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;

      'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,

      Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort,

      Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,

And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.